Winner
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Sam and Dean play hide-and-seek, with serious consequences. Naturally. Based on a "Starsky & Hutch" episode.


_First appeared in_A Small Circle of Friends 12_(2007), from Neon Rainbow Press  
Based on the Starsky & Hutch episode, "The Game"_

**Winner**  
K Hanna Korossy

"You sure this is where it's supposed to be?" Dean asked in a low voice as he sighted over his rifle at the same thing he had been for the last forty minutes: empty brick walls and sidewalks.

"Yes." Sam held his handgun loosely in one hand but clenched a knife in the other with experienced comfort. "I'm just not sure if it's going to be here tonight."

The rifle came down a fraction, and Dean frowned at him. "Same difference, dude."

"No," Sam said in that patient tone his brother hated. "The next time it'll strike will be here, the pattern was clear. I'm just not sure when."

"So if we don't get it tonight…"

"…no new victims. We can try again tomorrow."

"Terrific," Dean sighed. "Another day of hanging out with the cockroaches in that hole-in-the-sewer they call a motel."

This time Sam threw him an irritated glance. "Is there someplace else you'd rather be, Dean? Because I'm not the one who–"

There was a soft swish of sound, bare movement in an otherwise silent and black skeleton of a building. Dean raised his hand, but Sam had already shut up and flattened his otherwise tall silhouette.

Dean gestured to the left and Sam nodded and slipped that way. For all his brother's tendency to over-think and research everything ad nauseum, there was no denying he was good in a fight. The person Dean most wanted at his back, in fact, and that included his dad.

They flanked the building and this time Sam made a silent hand motion. _Cover me as I go in_.

Dean shook his head, held up three fingers.

Sam scowled, not liking to be overridden.

Two fingers.

Which was too bad for Sam, because it was a big brother's prerogative.

One finger.

Dean should know. He'd written the book.

A chop of the hand, and they stormed the front door together. Sam didn't go anywhere without him. It tended to end badly when he did.

A breeze announced their entrance, curling through a dark and apparently empty room. They swept it automatically, Sam pivoting to Dean's back as they did a 360, then moving in tandem toward the one door, to the left.

And then something rushed them from the shadows.

Dean swung the rifle around, but a sharp slice down his arm shook his aim. "Son-of-a…" he sputtered, pulling up the weapon as Sam spun anxiously in front of him.

"Dean?"

"Get it!"

The dark shape, short but wide and moving with four-legged grace, dashed out the door.

They were clattering down the steps a second later, Sam dashing back toward the left, Dean scanning the street to the right. How had they missed… whatever it was? The corners had been inky, true, too dim and distant for even their flashlights to illuminate them, but–

A black outline disappeared into the alley across the street.

"Sam!" Dean yelled and took off for the other side of the building that flanked the alley on the right. If they could trap it between them…

Luckily, the building wasn't too big, just a square two-story. Dean dashed around the far corner without breaking his stride.

And almost ran into a young woman unexpectedly in his path. Dean scowled at her startled expression as he lunged around her. "Get inside. There's a wild… dog on the loose," he yelled at her, mostly over his shoulder as he left her standing there, staring after him. What was a girl doing out that time of night in this neighborhood, anyway? Dean dismissed the thought, kept running.

He reached the opposite end of the alley the same time Sam did, coming from the other direction. Dean frowned past him, then around them.

"Where'd it go?"

"I don't know. You sure it ran in here?"

"Same way you came. Unless it's Spider-man, it had nowhere else to go."

A pause, then they both looked uneasily up the wall. But there was nothing there but a rusted fire-escape.

Sam shook his head. "You didn't see anything?"

"No. Well, a blonde chick, but…" Dean's head whipped around to stare down the empty back alley. He winced at the same time Sam's gaze swung sharply back to him.

"A girl? Here, in the middle of the night, and you didn't think that was strange?"

"Strange, yeah, but that doesn't mean–"

"Don't tell me after everything we've seen, you're surprised by that."

"No, I…" Dean grimaced sheepishly. "Fine, yes, you happy now? I didn't expect something that has claws like that to come in a mini-skirt model."

Sam's expression shifted at the mention of the claws, and he stuck his gun into the back of his jeans and reached for Dean's arm. "It got you, didn't it? How bad is it?"

Dean pushed him away. "Dude, it's just a scratch. Cut it out."

Sam gave him a knowing, wary look. "Yeah, well, that 'scratch' is dripping blood all over the place, and it's going to be dawn soon. We should get back to the room."

Dean just nodded. Truth was, he was tired, and while the scratch really wasn't more than that, it stung and throbbed. A long hot shower and some early morning junk food breakfast sandwiches, and he'd be ready for… six or eight hours of sleep, at least—longer, if Sam's nightmares gave them a break.

Under the pinking sky, they straggled back to the car. And only because there was nobody else around to see them, Dean didn't shrug off Sam's hand on his shoulder on the way.

00000

"So…" Sam said, taking a sip of coffee. It was unusually good for a corner diner, and he let it creep into the corners of his mind and sweep away the cobwebs there. "…we're looking for a shapeshifter."

"A shapeshifter that changes into an animal—werewolf?" Dean was already through two cups of coffee and had halfway demolished a pile of pancakes and sausages. Sam smiled in private amusement; even as a kid, Dean had had a big appetite. They had both wondered how Sam had ended up the tall one.

Sam flipped through the journal, answering absently, "Lunar cycle's wrong. Besides, the girl was wearing clothes, right?"

"Unfortunately." At Sam's look, Dean's chewing slowed. "What?"

Sam shook his head. "Werewolves don't transform back fully clothed."

"They also don't stop at sucking your blood," Dean said with a shrug, and took another syrup-dripping bite.

"No," Sam agreed, "they usually maul and devour. So… we're looking for some cross between a werewolf and a vampire?"

Dean contemplated that. "Well, why not? If a werewolf bit a vampire, or a vampire turned a werewolf…"

Stanford had given Sam the perspective to appreciate the absurdity of discussing vampires versus werewolves in a cheerful red-vinyl diner's booth, over pancakes and coffee. He wondered sometimes if Dean ever saw it. But his brother was as good at denial as he was at hunting. Sam sighed. "That still doesn't explain the clothing, or the lunar cycle."

"Maybe it's not a werewolf. Maybe it's a… a werecat or something. Other cultures have their own versions, right? They probably play by different rules."

It wasn't a bad idea. Sam tilted his head, considering. "Could be… Or it could just be some version of a shapeshifter, maybe a Native American skinwalker."

"Question is, how do we stop it? Our little plan last night didn't work so well."

Sam set his coffee mug down and gave Dean a frustrated look. "_My _plan worked just fine. It was there where I said it would be, Dean. You were the one who let the girl get past you because she had nice legs."

"It wasn't just her legs that were nice," Dean said with a flash of a reminiscent grin, soon replaced by a scowl and a clatter of his fork on the plate. "I went in there looking for some kind of animal, Sam. I wasn't about to take the time to check out everything else it _might've _turned into."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should have."

Dean leaned forward, eyes intent on Sam. "You got something to say about the way I hunt, say it."

Sam held his gaze a moment, then blinked tiredly. It had been a short night's sleep and the nightmares had been particularly vibrant. He didn't have the energy or desire to continue. "Forget it."

"No, I want to hear this. You could've done better last night, is that what you're saying? Huh, Sam?"

All right, if he wanted truth, so be it. Sam glared back at his brother. "Fine, yes, Dean, that's what I'm saying. I told you going in it might be a shapeshifter. I mean…" He leaned back. "…man, why do I even bother doing the research? You just jump in, guns blazing… Sometimes we can actually outwit these things without fighting them, Dean, or getting hurt." He reached out to finger the edge of the bandage visible at Dean's wrist, but his brother pulled away. Sam sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, just forget it. I'm tired and it's coming out wrong."

"Seems to me it's coming out right for once," Dean said, way too neutrally. The sudden smile that followed didn't help. "Okay, college boy, how about you put you brains where your mouth is?"

Sam stared at him, feeling slow. "What? What're you—?"

"Simple. Your smarts against my—what did you call it? 'Jumping in, guns blazing'?"

"Dean—"

"I'm serious, Sam. If you're so unhappy with the way I do things, if you think you can do this better, prove it. This is your chance to show me up, bro."

He was about to counter with, _what if I don't want to show you up_, except… he did. Not to tear Dean down, because Sam usually tread softly when the inequities of their education and opportunities came up. But if it earned him a little respect in his brother's eyes, made Dean pay attention next time? _Yes. _Sam wasn't above craving that. Maybe it would even save Dean from the next "scratch."

Sam swallowed, nodded. "Okay. What did you have in mind?"

"Hide-and-seek," Dean said immediately, and Sam wondered if he'd been thinking about this before this morning. "I hide, you seek, for twenty-four hours. Winner gets bragging rights and a little respect."

He didn't like that last, but let it slide. Sam wrapped his hands around his now-cold mug. "So, you try to hide and I find you? That's it?"

"You _try _to find me. That's it," Dean said with a cant of the head. "I'll make it easy on you—you get the car, and I stay in the city."

"For twenty-four hours."

"Yup. Say, noon to noon." He glanced at his watch. "We start in twenty minutes."

"Wait, wait." Sam held up his hand. This was all going too fast. "Shouldn't we talk about… I don't know, rules or something? What we do if something goes wrong?"

"What's gonna go wrong in twenty-four hours? It's just a city, Sam. We face worse all the time. And if you're worried about me, find me." Dean gave him a sly smile. "Unless you want to give up now."

Sam's expression set. "No. Twenty-four hours. I'll even give you an hour head start. And, Dean? Nothing supernatural, just hide-and-seek."

"Scout's honor," Dean promised with a grin.

"Which means nothing to you, freak, but I'm gonna hold you to it."

"Fine." Dean rose, threw a few bills on the table. "You sit here and finish your coffee. I'll be gone when you get back to the room."

That just sounded wrong in so many ways. Sam opened his mouth to take it all back, to call off this stupid game before Dean walked out on him…

Dean threw him a wink, and left.

Not walking out, just playing. Giving Sam a chance to show he wasn't just the little brother anymore, out of practice and out of shape. Bragging rights. That meant a lot with Dean.

But still, some part of Sam whispered this wasn't right, that he and his brother were never meant to be on opposite sides of the hunt.

Ignoring the shiver of foreboding, Sam stood and followed his brother out. He needed a walk to clear his head before he went back to their empty room, and started looking for Dean. For _fun._

00000_  
_

Dean glanced around at the busy street corner, liking the anonymity of it. He could've hidden in a small town, too—God knows they had pried enough things out of the corners of one-street burgs—but few things beat a city for sheer ability to lose yourself. It wasn't something he often wanted to do, and never before while he was with his dad or brother, but now? Dean Winchester was officially on vacation.

And one of his first acts was to pull his cell phone out and call his brother. _Shut up_, he growled at his laughing conscience.

Sam answered at the first ring. _"Giving up already, Dean?"_

He laughed. "You wish. Just wanted to make you the same offer."

There was a hesitation, then, _"No, thanks, man, I'm good. Where are you?"_

"Downtown," Dean said gamely. "Hiding in plain sight, little brother."

_"Let me guess… vintage music store?"_

Dean's smile melted and he glanced at the open doorway nearby and sidled a few steps away from it. "Uh, nope."

_"The car show at the civic center?"_

Dean's jaw sagged. "How did you—?" He grimaced; trust Sam to ruin his day's plans. "Sorry, gotta go. I think I hear a museum calling my name."

_"Yeah, right."_ The tone was pure fondness, though. _"See you soon, Dean."_

"Tomorrow, Sam," he shot back, and flipped his phone shut, but he was grinning. Dean glanced around the shops lining the street again, and re-thought his plans. He forgot how well Sam knew him sometimes, but that didn't mean Dean couldn't be unpredictable. Like… his gaze lit on a plain white building nearby, "City Library" in square letters above the door. Like doing a little of his bookish brother's research while Dean was killing time. He'd really show Sam if he not only evaded him for a day, but even came up with the identity of the thing they were chasing. Maybe he could check out that new Stephen King book while he was at it, too. Besides, his arm was sore, and running around the city all day was rapidly starting to lose its allure.

Rubbing the bandaged limb, Dean glanced both ways and crossed the street, and disappeared inside the library.

00000

Sam knocked on the whitewashed front door for the second time in two days, then stepped back to wait, idly glancing up the street. It was a quieter part of the city, the row houses blocking most of the traffic noise that lurked less than a mile behind them. He'd liked the neighborhood. Dean had dismissed it as too quiet and "normal."

Why did their differences still surprise him, Sam wondered with a quiet sigh.

The door opened, and Sam turned back to it, smiling at the young woman behind the screen door. "Ms. Wilkes."

"Agent Duvall." She didn't seem surprised to see him.

"I'm sorry to bother you again so soon, but we had some follow-up questions and, well, I don't know if my partner's been by yet…" he trailed off hopefully. He'd seen the way she had looked at Dean the day before, and his brother eating it up.

Her blush confirmed it. "Uh, yes, Dean—Agent Nicholson—stopped by right after lunch. I didn't realize, I mean, it wasn't really an official visit. Was it?"

"Maybe not," he allowed with a game smile. "Um, what did you two talk about?"

"Oh, he just asked me about places to stay in the city." She was blushing harder, and Sam guessed that wasn't all Dean had asked her. He wondered idly if he staked out her place that evening if he'd net Dean, but his brother wasn't that careless. Sam doubted he'd find him anywhere else they had already been together.

"I see," he said politely. "And, where did you say again?"

"Actually, I told him we have a guest room," and she was positively red now. "I mean, with that arm of his…"

Great, she had seen the bandage. "It's okay, Ms. Wilkes," Sam was quick to assure her; people remembered details like that, and it could come back to bite the two of them later. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to deflate Dean's standing with her a little. "It's just a scratch."

"Well, he was rubbing at it like it hurt. Not obviously, just when I went to get some coffee. It looked like it hurt."

Sam's good humor ebbed. It shouldn't have meant anything. The injury probably did ache, and Dean wasn't above playing up his injuries for attention, usually of the female kind. But Sam's stomach twisted fractionally at her words, and the foreboding had returned, a cold pall lingering in the back of his mind. It was probably was nothing, but still… He forced a smile. "Thank you, ma'am. That's all I needed to know." He turned and bounded down the steps, back to the Impala.

Sam turned the matter over in his head on the way back to the motel, and his laptop. Probably proving Dean's point that he hunted best in words instead of in the field, but Sam didn't much care about that right now. Vampires, shapeshifters, breaking the skin… there was something there, less a memory, more an instinct.

_Bad news_, it whispered, because they rarely got good news breaks, not in their line of work. Not even when they had each other to watch their backs, let alone when they were apart.

Sam flinched as he pulled the car into the spot nearest their room. A little over three hours into their game and he was already regretting agreeing to it. Their greatest strength was in being together. Deliberately apart, out of touch, they were begging for something to take advantage of the weakness. The last time they had been separated, Dean had nearly been eaten by a wendigo. The time before that, Jess…

Oh, God, what had they been thinking?

Sam hurried into the room, booting up the computer before he even threw himself into the chair in front of it.

It took close to an hour, even though he knew where to start looking. Different variations on a theme of bloodsuckers and shapeshifters: vampyr, sasabonsam, owenga, azeman, loup-garous_. _The accounts varied and Sam had to dig deep, but eventually a pattern started to appear, the same warnings showing up over and over. Sam read the sections several times before sitting back, dazed.

It was even worse than he'd thought. Shapeshifter and blood-drinker lore shared a well-known commonality: an exchange of fluids or bite could be fatal at best, transforming at worst. But the oldest lore described some creatures that cursed with the mere drawing of blood. _Just a scratch. _Sometimes it was irreversible, but sometimes… Sam latched on hungrily; there were time limits, windows in which the damage could be undone. Windows never longer than twenty-four hours.

_Damage undone. _Killing the infecting beast was the most common countermeasure, but the victims needed to be treated, too. If Dean was indeed tainted, if Sam couldn't find him far before their own stupid twenty-four hour deadline—

Okay, that had just stopped being an option. Sam had to find him, had to win this one for both their sake's, simple as that.

He dug into his pocket for his cell phone, nearly dropping it when it rang in his hand. _Dean_, it said, and Sam all but wilted in relief. He flipped the phone open.

"Dean, listen to me—"

_"Ready to give up already? Sam, I'm disappointed."_

"No, man, you win. I mean it—come back and I'll say it to your face, but listen, Dean—"

_"Come on, you think I'm really gonna fall for that? Forget it, Sam. I'll see you in… twenty hours, then you can tell me all about how brawn beats brains."_

"Dean, this is serious. You need to—"

A chuckle. _"Dude, watch it, you're starting to sound desperate. I'll see you at noon. Bye, Sam."_

And just like that, he was gone.

Well, he wasn't gone yet. Sam instantly hit redial, practicing the economy of words he'd need to convince Dean he was being serious before his brother hung up on him again.

Voicemail came on. Sam made a face, waited for the beep.

"Dean, listen to me, that scratch you got, it's mystical—you need to come back so we can treat it before it gets worse. Just forget about the bet—you win, okay? I promise. Call me and I'll come get you." He paused. "Please." It wasn't a word they used often with each other. Sam hung up, and groaned. Who knew when Dean would bother listening to the message. He'd been _there_, on the line, his life in Sam's hands, and he'd _lost _him.

His life in Sam's hands…

Sam chewed his knuckle for a second, staring at the phone, then shot to his feet and headed for the door.

He had an idea.

00000

Dean rubbed at his forehead and the growing headache behind it, and swallowed a yawn. There weren't too many days when he could sit and read for hours, but still, it didn't usually make him that sleepy. He hadn't even gotten to the research yet, but maybe he should just find a room and take a nap before dinner. He already had a place picked out, a Cajun shack Sam would never have chosen in a million years. Even better, Dean probably wouldn't have, either. His stomach felt a little queasy at the thought of food, but a nap would probably help that, too.

He gave into the next yawn, jaw cracking as it stretched. He was getting old if a late-night hunt left him this washed out. Of course, Sam's nightmares had broken the previous night's sleep more than once… Dean winced. There would be no one there tonight to wake Sam before he suffered through Jessica's death again. He still wasn't talking to his brother about it, but Dean could sit up with him, tell him again it wasn't his fault, make sure he knew he wasn't alone in this.

Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

Sam knew how to take care of himself, but Jess's death had battered him. Eighteen years of the Winchester driving force had hit home for him all at once with her murder, and the anger and guilt Sam still carried around worried Dean. He'd had little to offer his brother in exchange for her loss: a return to a life he hated, a different motel room every night, bad food and easy lies. But Dean had promised answers, and his presence. Reneging on one of those, even to prove a point, was possibly not the best decision he'd ever made.

But if he gave up and went back now? The balance between them shifting, Dean's experience no longer able to hold its own against Sam's smarts? Where did that leave him?

No, he had to win this one. Prove to Sam he knew what he was doing, that his promises about finding Dad and the demon weren't just wishful thinking. That Sam hadn't signed up on the losing side.

No. They would survive twenty-four hours. And when Sam was done eating humble pie, Dean would make sure he knew his contribution was as important to this little partnership as Dean's.

And maybe he'd get a good night's sleep at least in the meantime. Dean breathed out slowly, feeling an ache in his chest from the recent string of cold late-night hunts, and tilted his head back against the curve of the chair. Stephen King tipped over to rest on his stomach, still open.

The phone in his pocket started vibrating.

Dean made a face; Sam had already called earlier, and Dean had cheerfully erased his message unheard, not about to fall prey to his tricks. Apparently, his little brother wasn't giving up that easily. Dean glanced at the phone.

_Shady Grove Hospital_, it said in block letters.

He sat up instantly, book sliding unheeded to the floor, and swayed as he flipped his phone open. "Yeah?"

_"Is this Dean Kerner?"_ a soft female voice asked.

"Yeah, something wrong?"

_"I'm calling from Shady Grove Hospital. You're listed as next of kin for Samuel Kerner?"_

His mouth was nearly too dry to say the words. "Yeah, Sam. Is he okay?"

She hesitated. _"Could you come down to the hospital, sir? There's been an accident—"_

Dean didn't hear the rest past the rush in his ears, but he was already stumbling toward the door, his gait uncertain in his panic. "Is he okay? I mean, is he—?"

_"He's alive, Mr. Kerner—that's all I can tell you. Please, if you'll just come down here."_

"I'm on my way." Dean was outside, hailing the first taxi he saw, even though that meant he wouldn't have enough money for a room that night.

Sam was hurt. God, Sam was hurt. Dean hadn't been there to protect him.

His hand shook on the car door handle, fire up and down his arm as he slammed the door behind him. None of that mattered. Sammy was hurt.

Dean stilled. Maybe.

Sam had pitted his intelligence against Dean's instincts. _Outwitting_ instead of _jumping in_. What if this was his version of smart hunting, a trap to bring Dean to him instead of Sam having to track him down? What better bait than an injured brother?

Dean cradled his arm to himself, rubbing it to ease the throb as he considered that. Would Sam really sink that low to win a bet? Would he be that desperate to prove his brother wrong? Dean couldn't have said for sure _he_ wouldn't have, were he in Sam's shoes.

But the call had come from the hospital. And Sam wasn't Dean.

Okay, well… he was going to the hospital, no question of that. But once there, he could be cautious, make sure this wasn't just Sam trying to be clever.

He really hoped it was, though.

_Accident,_ his mind whispered. _Next of kin. _Where would Sam have found a woman to make that call for him? Who was Dean kidding; one bat of those soulful eyes and women lined up to help Sam.

_He's alive. _But maybe hurt. Dean pounded the seat with a fist, grimacing as it jostled his aching arm. This game was turning into a nightmare. What had he been thinking, pitting himself against Sam? He'd just stripped away the best defense both of them had, especially now, when each other was all they had left.

_Hang in there, Sam. _And if he found out this was a trick, Dean was going to knock that sensitive little brother of his into next week—after he claimed his winnings.

The taxi pulled up to the corner of the hospital where Dean directed it, and as he pulled out a handful of bills, a thought occurred to him. "How would you like to make some extra money?"

Two minutes later, he was flattened against the wall next to the glass front doors of the hospital, peering around just enough to keep the cabdriver in sight. He watched as the man went up to the front desk and asked about Samuel Kerner. The nurse checked her computer, and Dean could see her head shaking from where he stood. His nerves felt stretched taut. Sam wasn't there, or…

The cabdriver thanked her, turned back toward the front door. He only made it a few steps before he was intercepted by a tall, dark-haired figure.

Sam.

Dean slumped in relief, anxious energy draining away to leave him lightheaded. He watched briefly as Sam interrogated the poor cabbie, then slipped away from the doors. Sam would be out there in a minute, and Dean wanted to be long gone by then.

It had been a trap. Sam had been waiting for him to just walk in, not expecting Dean to have a few tricks up his sleeve, too. He'd scared the living daylights out of his brother just to win a bet. Dean didn't know if he admired or was repulsed by that.

He reached the street corner and turned back toward the heart of the city.

The scenery suddenly lurched around him. Dean staggered.

Okay, that was… not normal. Maybe he'd lost a little more blood the night before than he'd thought? Or maybe there was infection?

Dean ran his other hand down his tender arm, trying to feel if there was heat or swelling under the gauze, but it was hard to tell. Sam had been thorough with the disinfectant the night before. If anything, Dean felt a little overheated, not feverish, a trickle of sweat going down his collar. Adrenaline withdrawal? The call had rattled him more than Dean cared to admit. The thought of Sam hurt, maybe seriously…

Across the street from him, a door opened. Blonde hair caught Dean's eye, and he looked up to see the girl from the alley the night before emerge and turn down the block, moving with sure, comfortable strides.

Dean's head snapped up to follow her progress, dizziness and Sam's deception suddenly forgotten. He hadn't intended to actually hunt while he was on his own, that assumption so natural, they hadn't even put it into the rules. But they could scour the city for a week and not find her again, and if he could end this now?

Dean was too much the hunter to pass up the chance. He set his wobbliness aside and took off after her, staying on his side of the street, arm pressed to his ribs.

Her steps never slowed, and, after a few blocks, the effort to keep up with her was taking an unexpected toll. Dean's clothes were damp with exertion, his heartbeat a throb of pain in his head. His feet felt heavy, his balance uncertain. Some part of him knew this wasn't right, but it wasn't the same part that had looked at the pictures of the victims and known immediately this was their kind of gig. He'd be dead before he'd let a creature of the night get away to kill again.

They were near the outskirts of town, and the girl turned down an empty street, heading toward the manufacturing district of warehouses and factories. Dean crossed the street unsteadily, ignoring a car that blared its horn after him, and followed her, staying to the shadows now, pressing himself into walls and doorways when it seemed she might look back and see him. Dean wiped his face with the back of his good arm, and promised himself that, after this, he'd find a place to curl up and sleep until noon.

The girl stopped at a door and, without looking around, unlocked it and disappeared inside.

Dean reached it a half-minute later, leaning against the cool metal as he tried the knob. Unlocked. It looked like it led into a warehouse, or maybe some sort of plant, although there was only silence from within. He started to open the door.

Without warning, pain shot through him like a searing arrow, up his arm into his body. Dean clamped his teeth on a groan but doubled over, only his grip on the doorknob keeping him from falling over completely.

It took long seconds to dissipate, leaving him panting and weak. Dean stretched his jaw, blinked, trying to get his body back under control. Not good. Really not good. This wasn't just blood loss or some bug, and considering the source seemed to be his injured arm, the possibilities weren't too encouraging. He should probably call Sam, tell him to forget the stupid bet, get him down there to help kill this thing, and then figure out what was wrong with Dean. Ask him to do the research he was so good at, and Dean nearly laughed at the irony. His fingers curled longingly around the cell in his pocket.

But what if she got away in the meantime and killed again? How could he look himself in the mirror then? Dean had hunted things blinded by blood and half-unconscious before. He could always call Sam after to come pick up the pieces.

Dean let go of the cell and eased his gun free of his pocket, instead. He pushed the door open with the same hand.

The building was dim inside, the only light streaming in from high, dirty windows. It lit up the dust motes dancing in the air, and seemed to highlight the quiet. Dean closed the door silently behind him and moved along the wall, half for stealth, half for support. His vision fluttered as badly as the dust. His arm throbbed in harmony with the pain in his head, and each step seemed to drive nails into the limb.

This wasn't one of the smarter things he'd done and Dean knew it. If he had any sense, he'd go call Sam and wait for his brother, or maybe even take the chance of coming back another day. If he collapsed, she would kill again anyway.

But something drew him on, something he himself wasn't sure of anymore.

The hallway opened into a large, open room. The remains of an old factory, apparently, rusted and silent machinery filling the space. Dean swallowed and stared at the decaying hulks, trying to figure out what to do next.

"Looking for me?"

The voice, whimsical and light, startled him, and Dean turned, gun raised and cocked.

She stood about ten feet away, her posture, her face showing no fear. In fact, she smiled as she looked at Dean. "It's hurting a lot now, isn't it?"

Dean frowned in confusion. "What're you—?" His voice was hoarse.

"Your arm. I didn't go too deep, but I don't have to."

He glanced down at the bandaged limb, fear turning his stomach. "I've been threatened before, lady."

"Oh, I'm no lady." She took a few steps toward him, apparently uncaring she had a gun pointed at her. "And this is no threat."

Dean's finger tightened on the trigger, just as _pain _ripped through him like a living thing, tearing and slashing as it went. Far worse than before, it tore a cry from him and dropped him to his knees as the gun fell from his hand.

She ignored it, delicate feet in high heels stepping over the weapon as she stopped in front of him. Dean could barely look up at her, concentrating too hard on not blacking out. A hand, cold even on his icy skin, tipped his chin up to meet her eyes. They slitted like a cat's, and smiled at him. "Welcome to my world."

"Go to Hell," he ground out, although that probably _was_ her world. And then the agony closed in over Dean and dragged him under.

00000

The cabdriver had been little help. Yes, he'd driven Dean there, and been paid a hefty tip for inquiring about Sam at the front desk. No, he hadn't noticed Dean looking particularly unwell, although he really hadn't been paying attention. Maybe he'd been holding his arm funny? No, he had no idea where Dean had gone.

Sam had dashed out the front doors to scour the sidewalk, the street in either direction, and the cab, to no avail. Dean had probably seen him and taken off.

Sam cursed his slowness and his brother's speed. It had taken a lot of coaxing and lies to get a candy striper to make the call to Dean, and Sam had just wasted it. Wasted maybe his last chance to reach his brother before it was too late.

Stiffening his spine, Sam started walking, questioning everyone he met.

He hit the jackpot with a wise-eyed panhandler sitting at the end of the block. Sam stuffed a ten into his cup with little prompting, and the old man suddenly found his tongue.

"Yeah, I saw him. Looked juiced, if you ask me. Not too much to notice her, though," he said with a bright smile.

Sam leaned in closer. "Her?"

"Yeah, pretty blonde across the street, legs from here to China. One look at her and he was feeling no pain."

Sam's jaw shifted. Dean noticed beautiful women even on a bad day, but he had an idea what blonde had caught Dean's eye this time. "He followed her," Sam guessed.

"Yup. Went that way." A wave up the street.

Sam added a five to the man's cup and stood, staring down the street as if he might spot Dean blocks away in the rush-hour crowd. But there was no telling where he was now. Not by following this trail, anyway, but the girl… That was one track he might be able to find, but not from here.

Sam turned and dashed back toward the hospital, and the car.

The Impala held Dean's presence almost as surely as if his brother had possessed it, from the tape stuck in the tape deck to the smell of old vinyl. The driver's seat was molded to Dean's body, not Sam's taller frame, reminding him each time he drove that he was a temporary replacement. That no one could replace Dean.

Sam's fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he wrinkled his nose to get rid of the sting of frustration. They were idiots, both of them. If twenty years of hunting had taught either of them anything, it was to trust their instincts. How could they have been so stupid to turn against the strongest instinct of all, to watch each other's backs? He was going to fix this, Sam swore, giving it everything he had. He couldn't think about what would happen if that wasn't enough.

There was a library nearby; that was his first stop. A Stephen King book sat on a chair as he strode past, and his heart twisted at the sight of it. Dean had been wanting to read that one ever since it had come out, they just never seemed to have much downtime. Sam lifted his chin and kept going.

The library had a decent old books collection. Sam pored through the volumes of mythology and folklore, connecting mental dots.

There were a few things he could cross out immediately. Werewolves and related were-creatures weren't likely candidates. Even though not all were bound by the lunar cycle, no lore even suggested bloodsucking tendencies. On the other hand, vampires, _Dracula_ notwithstanding, weren't shapeshifters. The hybrids in between were few and poorly documented. An azeman—or woman—seemed the closest thing to what Sam was looking for, a blood-drainer that changed into a beast at night. Sam took a few notes, kept reading.

One thing most of the possibilities had in common was a need for freedom: large, empty places. Odd that it would settle in a city then. Maybe the desire for a steady stream of victims had overcome its distaste? That was a pleasant thought. It would still try to seek out a lair it was comfortable in, though, someplace large and open and quiet. In the middle of a big city…

Sam dropped books on the table in haphazard piles and went to find a city map.

Spread out on the table before him, the scope of his search suddenly seemed daunting. What had he been thinking, accepting a challenge to find Dean in all this? His brother could have crawled into a deserted tenement basement somewhere and Sam wouldn't have found him in a week. He'd relied on how much he knew Dean, and how predictable his brother was, to track him down. Now, with Dean possibly in the hands of their prey, all bets were off. And it was a very big city.

Sam's expression set, and he leaned over the map.

Locations of the victims came first, large black x's on the map that would give the librarian a fit when she saw it. They were clustered in the northwest corner of the city, just as Sam had realized the day before when working out where the creature was likely to strike again. It was within walking distance of the hospital, too, which also fit. Sam's finger traced a circle on the map. There. Her lair would be somewhere there, in the manufacturing district. God willing, that meant Dean was somewhere there, too.

Manufacturing district. That meant factories: large, open buildings. Quiet, so it would probably be a deserted one. Possibly recently purchased.

Sam went to find a phone book, fresh hope almost as painful as the fear that twisted his gut.

00000

The same pain that had shoved him into darkness reached down and yanked him up out of it again.

Dean gasped awake and blinked sluggishly into the gloom, trying to focus. His eyes didn't obey him any more than the rest of his body, slumped painfully against a cold brick wall. With exhausting effort, his head rolled to one side, hair catching on the rough surface behind him, and his fingers twitched, but beyond that, it wasn't happening. And even that had sent fire skittering down his nerves, sharp where the rest of the torment his body was bathed in was dull and deep.

Fear made his heart speed up, his breaths coming in sharp pants. He knew what was happening. He was breaking into pieces, brain disconnecting from body, muscles and joints no longer his to control. Maybe eventually becoming something he wouldn't even recognize, which fit with the vague memories he had of before: a girl who wasn't a girl, a threat that was a promise. And death. Soul death, if not physical death.

Conversion.

Dean raged inside his still and silent body. Transformation was an ever-present danger in their line of work, but he had always carried the belief his dad and Sam wouldn't allow it. They would kill him before they'd let him go like that, at least, Dad would have. Sam… God, Dean groaned, Sammy was playing the game of hide-and-seek Dean had taunted him into. And, meanwhile, Dean had gotten himself well and truly lost.

He tried his hands again, concentrating on the right one. It took almost all his energy, but finally it moved, slid toward his pocket. His cell. Sam. The effort brought tears to his eyes as Dean's fingers fumbled inside his jacket… and came up empty.

His phone was gone; his only link to his brother. Dean choked down a groan, despair rolling in like fog.

"Awake again? You're more of a fighter than I thought. You were a good choice."

It was hard to find her, neither his head nor his eyes interested in the effort, but Dean was determined. He couldn't see the smile he heard in her voice, but he glared fuzzy, hateful daggers at the curvy silhouette. "Choice… for what?" Dean asked with effort.

"To become one of us."

And this was where, in all the movies he and Sam made fun of, the villain unfolded the whole plot, just before the hero rushed in to save the day. Except this wasn't a movie, and Dean was supposed to be the hero. "What're you?"

A twist of the body that might have been a shrug. "You'll find out soon enough."

Her smugness made his hate burn hotter and tapped reserves Dean didn't know he had. His hand inched toward his side, where light glinted dully off steel. She'd taken his cell but was so sure of herself, she hadn't even bothered to get his gun.

She looked up, honey-blonde hair shimmering in what he realized was lamplight, the windows above dim. "It won't be long now."

Dean's frozen fingers closed around the relatively warm metal of the gun, and he shifted it familiarly into his palm. "Yeah? Then what?" he whispered.

The not-so-much girl smiled at him, white teeth visible even to his uncertain vision. "Then the fun starts."

"How 'bout we start now?" And Dean raised the gun, mustering all the energy he had to pull the trigger.

The shots were deafening, the recoil making him cry out as his elbow hit the wall and shook his aching body. But it would be worth it if…

She was gone. Not dead, just gone. Only her laughter remained, sinking his spirit.

"It won't be long now…"

Dean let the gun drop, shivering and defeated. He would die here, alone, reborn as one of the monsters he hunted. He'd done this; he deserved this. But it was Sam he would be leaving alone, and Sam who would bear the weight of guilt for not having saved Dean from his own stupidity. Let alone how he'd feel if he had to kill what Dean had become. The horror of that outstripped even the fear of what was happening to him.

No, he rested his hand on the warm handgun. He'd end it before it went that far. But Dean wasn't sure that would make it any easier for Sam, either.

_My fault, not yours, Sammy._ Dean's eyes clenched shut, his breathing growing harsh as the pain mounted a new attack. _I'm so sorry._

00000

The Impala idled to a halt as Sam stared at brick-faced buildings for any signs of use or occupancy. His calls had netted three good candidates for the creature he sought, but between the lack of details and the difficulty finding one red-brick building among a hundred, his search had been slow. Too slow. He was hours away from the only deadline that mattered to him, the twenty-four hours since Dean had been injured, and he was still looking for the second site. And if none of the three were what he was looking for… Dean was gone. Game over.

_I am so sorry_, Sam's mind kept up a helpless chant it had started back in the motel room. _I should never have pushed you into this. _ Forcing his brother to prove, what, that he was the more dedicated and experienced hunter? That he was his college-educated brother's equal? As if there had ever been doubt about any of that. Sam had let his stupid pride get between them, and now Dean was alone and in trouble, and, _God, I'm sorry._ For all the good that did Dean now.

There. Tucked between two larger buildings that boasted smoking chimneys and blazing lights, the smaller building was unobtrusive and quiet. It looked abandoned at first glance, but Sam could see the slightest glow in the high windows. Someone was keeping the lights on.

He turned the car off, clambered out, wincing as the door gave its usual rusty squeal. Sam dragged the duffel bag across the seat to him, digging out the weapons and wards he had decided on before. He checked the gun once, flicking off the safety before he slid it into the back of his jeans, and divided the rest of his arsenal between various pockets. There. Sam shut the door as quietly as was possible, then took a deep breath. Here went nothing… or everything.

Sam made a circuit of the building, checking entrances as he went. A side door was blocked by a tower of crates, and the back cargo doors were chained shut. They had bolt-cutters in the trunk if necessary, but he still hadn't tried the direct route yet, and Sam didn't feel like wasting any more time. He slipped back to the front entrance and through the unlocked door.

A corridor stretched in front of him, opening onto the dimly lit factory floor. Sam flattened himself against one wall, gun in hand and ready, and moved deeper inside with silent steps.

At the end of the hallway, there was still no sign or sound of movement in the building, except for a quiet rhythm he couldn't quite place. It wasn't until Sam dared a quick glance around the corner that he realized what it was.

Dean. His brother was sprawled against the wall with broken grace, his gun beside his hand. Even as Sam's frame went weak with relief, he realized it was Dean's labored breathing he'd heard, the only proof of his brother's life he had.

"Dean!" Sam whispered urgently, glancing once more around the large room. Nothing stirred, nothing reacted, including his brother.

Sam crouched, easing around the corner that way. It felt like a trap, Dean not moving, so easy to find—and, yeah, Sam wasn't missing the irony there—the silent building. Sam kept tearing his gaze away from his brother to do a sweep, but there wasn't anything to see, while Dean was inches away, still not moving.

Swallowing, Sam sidled up next to his brother and turned most of his attention on Dean. He looked awful. If not for the strained respirations, Sam would have feared he was dead. Sweat glistened on ashen skin and dark-rimmed eyes, and the lines of pain in his face made him look ten years older. Sam's face creased in stinging empathy as he slid a hand under Dean's jaw and lifted his head, feeling the heartbeat galloping under the clammy skin.

"Dean," he said softly. "Hey."

Eyelashes fluttered and rose, to Sam's mild surprise. Dean's pupils were huge and dominated by suffering even his stoicism couldn't hide. They had trouble bringing Sam into focus, but he knew the moment they did. Dean's mouth twitched. "Sammy…" His voice was raw, and he coughed weakly. "…you win."

He could barely swallow the lump in his throat. "Yeah, right. I'm going to get you out of here, Dean."

The head rolled slightly in his grasp. "…need to go. She's here." Dean struggled to straighten. "Sam, if she draws blood…"

"Transformation curse, I know." He laid the gun down and was pulling stuff out of his pockets with his free hand. "We can reverse it, but I need to find her." He couldn't do much for Dean before she was dead.

"Too dangerous." Dean's eyes shut, and seemed to have trouble reopening. "Not alone."

He smiled achingly at Dean. "I'm not alone."

His brother's fevered gaze locked on him. "Sammy—"

"Shut up, Dean," he said gently, and started sprinkling the wolfsbane.

Sam made a wide semi-circle around his brother, enclosing him in a bubble of protection against the wall. That was followed by several handfuls of rice. He could sense Dean's unfocused confusion behind him, but there wasn't time for explanations right now. The building was still quiet, but Sam could sense they weren't alone. Lead shavings finished the circle of wards, and he sprinkled holy water around its edge for good measure. Nothing was getting to Dean again, not while they needed to separate one last time. He tried not to think about how the wards would also serve as a cage for a transformed Dean if Sam failed.

"…you take care of my car?" his brother murmured from behind him.

Sam smiled as he finished his task. "I've been meaning to tell you about that."

Dean groaned. "Jackass." Sam was startled to feel a surprisingly strong clasp around his wrist, and he looked back at his brother. "I'm sorry," Dean said earnestly.

"Yeah," he nodded, "me, too."

Dean's fingers tightened. "Be careful."

"I will. Wait for me."

Dean ghosted him a smile again and then his eyes winced shut.

Sam's smile broke and with gentle hands he maneuvered Dean over so he was lying on his side within the semi-circle. Sam retrieved his brother's gun and closed Dean's hand around it, more for reassurance than utility. If the circle wouldn't hold, bullets would probably be of little use, especially regular lead ones. But Sam had no intention of letting anything test his wards. He squeezed Dean's shoulder, picked up his own handgun, and stood, face hardening as he glanced around the deserted factory.

Time to go hunting.

Hunting alone required different strategy and skills. Without someone to watch your back, you had to keep a wall and cleared rooms behind you at all times, moving inexorably in one direction to try to corner your enemy. The long-unused training came back effortlessly.

The main floor of the factory was unoccupied, Sam was fairly certain of that. About as certain as he was that he and Dean weren't alone in the building, which left the ring of rooms one level up, opening out into a walkway that looked down onto the factory floor. If he cleared the upper level and didn't find his prey, he could always come down and do a sweep of the bottom floor without fearing an attack from above. Nodding to himself, Sam raised his gun again and crept toward the nearest stairway.

He could feel her eyes on him as he reached the top floor, although a swift 360 revealed nothing. Sam didn't bother with stealth, knowing his moves were being watched, but he stayed alert as he tried the nearest door. Locked. The second one revealed a dusty office, and Sam cleared it in ten seconds. He sprinkled wolfsbane and holy water along the threshold and moved on to the next room.

A succession of offices in various stages of emptiness followed, and Sam checked each one carefully and treated the doorways before going on. Locked doors he noted and passed. He didn't think she would bother with such a weak defense, but he could always come back if necessary.

The far end of the building was lined with three larger rooms instead of the small offices—conference rooms, maybe, or storage. Sam didn't care, just stepped up his awareness of the shadowed distant corners. This was what had gotten them in trouble in the first place. He swept the first room, sealed it, moved on to the second, and felt her the moment he passed through the doorway.

Sam stayed by the door this time, the space behind him more comforting than any wall. Without tearing his eyes away from the room, he reached around and laid down the boundary of wards along the threshold, dusting it with lead and rice for good measure.

"You think that will stop me?" a menacing voice echoed in the room.

Sam's gaze followed it as it bounced off the walls. "I think it'll at least slow you down," he answered carefully, and felt for a light switch by the door. He found it, and threw the room into stark light.

She appeared on his right, as if melting out of the walls. Another shapeshifter skill? he wondered fleetingly. He could see why Dean had been distracted by her; her figure was perfect, her features striking. _Welcome to my parlor, _the old nursery rhyme came unbidden to his mind, in Dean's young voice.

Sam instantly re-aimed at her heart.

"It's too late, you know. He's already one of us."

So that was why she'd stuck around, to wait for the change. Sam gritted his teeth. "Not yet."

She smiled at his gun. "That won't kill me."

"It doesn't have to," Sam said, and pulled the trigger.

She was already moving toward him, inhumanly fast, but she hadn't expected the silver. Two of the bullets struck her and she stopped, wincing, darkness gathering in her face as she looked at Sam—slowed, but more dangerous than ever.

One of Sam's hands let go of the gun and closed around the handle of the axe under his jacket. "Give up?" he taunted, Dean-style.

She lunged at him again.

He used the momentum of drawing the axe to swing at her, and was almost fast enough. It scratched her neck, drawing more blood and making her hiss, but she retreated from the silver blade.

And then her skin began to flow. It coarsened, darkened, turning…

Seconds later, he was facing a growling beast.

Sam tried not to flinch. He'd half-expected this, and some irrational part of him was relieved not to have to kill her when she looked human. But he'd also hoped to end the fight before it got this far. She—it—would be stronger and faster now, and Sam no longer had the element of surprise.

He stared at her, hand flexing on the axe, and flipped mentally through strategies, wishing more than ever Dean were there. Strategy had always been one of his brother's gifts. _Strong where I am weak._

He'd probably forget the insight as soon as their next round of one-upmanship came along, but right now it was branded into Sam's brain. As well as how close he was to losing that half of himself for good if he didn't finish this soon. Dean was dying downstairs. She was the only obstacle in his path to saving his brother. Simple as that.

She rushed him. Sam raised the gun and emptied it into her.

Bullets wouldn't kill her, even silver ones, but he hadn't counted on them to. They did hurt, and stopped her for a moment. It was enough. Desperation made him fast, and rage made him strong. The axe blade chopped most of the way through her neck this time, severing bone.

She howled, the sound raking his ears, and took one more swipe at him. Sam dodged the frantic claws, and grimly swung again. The severed head dropped, followed a moment later by the body. Decapitation killed most things, Sam knew, and whatever she'd been was no different.

One floor away, Dean cried out.

Sam gave the body a last look, making certain it was really dead, glad it didn't transform back. Then he turned and ran.

He couldn't hear or see any sign of life as he crossed the last few feet to Dean, not even the harsh breathing of before. Sam's heart was pounding in fear of what he would find as he knelt inside the circle and felt for a pulse at Dean's neck.

Alive. Alive, but fading.

Sam slid a thigh under Dean's head and pulled at his jacket sleeve, no longer taking the time to be gentle. Dean didn't react as Sam wrenched his coat off, then shoved the sleeve of his shirt up. The bandage on his arm was damp and discolored, and Sam winced for his brother as he unwound it.

The scratch he had carefully cleaned the night before was now livid and swollen, the skin around it almost grey. Sam dug out his half-empty bottle of holy water and, tilting Dean's arm up, poured water down its length to wash out the wound.

Dean bucked weakly under him, and Sam leaned on his hip to keep him still. "Easy, Dean," he murmured, chewing on the inside of his mouth as he poured out the rest of the bottle.

The herbs were a mix of wolfsbane and healing plants crushed into a powder. They probably worked best as a poultice, but that would have to wait until he got Dean back to the motel. For now, Sam sprinkled them over the wound with a simple prayer that had nothing to do with spells or chants and everything to do with his worry for his brother. Sam took out a roll of clean gauze and wrapped the arm again, then carefully started to work Dean's jacket back onto him.

That was when Dean started to shake.

Sam dropped the jacket and wrapped himself around his older brother, trying to absorb the tremors that were rapidly becoming convulsions. The breaking of the transformation curse, or the completion of it? Sam had no idea, and terror ran through his veins like blood. "I've got you, Dean," he started repeating. "I've got you. It's gonna be all right." Because saying it aloud made it sound true.

Dean suddenly stilled, his body going slack against Sam.

He fumbled for a pulse, leaned down to listen to Dean's chest, and then sagged over Dean in weak relief. Already his brother's heartbeat was steadying, his breathing less forced. Color was creeping into his face, a warm blush of heat across chilled cheeks. He was coming back to life, coming back from the edge of conversion, coming back to Sam.

Sam held him close, whispered a thank you, and smiled.

"I win."

00000

There was something wrong.

He knew that even under all the layers of sleep he had to swim up through to reach light. Even so, when he finally managed to surface and open his eyes, he couldn't seem to do more than just lie there, staring dully. Definitely something wrong, and fear tightened his scalp.

"Dean?" A face leaned into his limited frame of view. "You awake?"

Sam. His body relaxed back into its fatigued languor. Thank God. Dean blinked slowly, swallowed, wanting to answer, to ask his own questions, to say _something. _But the exhaustion was utterly pervasive, saturating muscle and bone, slowing his thoughts to a crawl.

His shoulder was squeezed, soft pressure on aching skin. "It's all right, you just need some more rest. Hang on a minute." Sam disappeared.

There were fragments of memory, or dreams: the rocking of the car, being carried over a shoulder, his clothes being peeled off and water passing over his skin and throbbing arm. Sam's voice rising and falling, soothing and concerned. Something was wrong with _him_, but Sam hadn't sounded panicked, his hands slow and careful as he had taken care of his brother.

A shadow passed in front of Dean's vision again, coalescing into Sam crouching next to him. His mouth was nudged open, something dry and chalky placed on his tongue. Then Sam lifted his head with one hand and put a glass to his lips. Dean sputtered a little but managed to swallow, feeling the water wash down pills, and the cotton in his mouth.

Dean hated this, the not being in control, not knowing what was happening. Even in Sam's care, he didn't like being helpless.

He was settled again on the pillow, Sam using the corner of it to wipe away the water trickling from his mouth. Blankets were pulled up to his chin, and he remembered being wrapped in them while Sam did something to his arm. Dean's gaze fell automatically to the bed, but saw only lumpy blue blankets and white sheets.

"You're safe, Dean." Again a squeeze of his shoulder, his wrist. "Trust me, everything's fine."

Trust him. Dean stared at him, eyes heavy. Okay. Yeah, that much he could do. In fact, Sam was the only person he could surrender control to without it terrifying the heck out of him. Just for a little while, just until he figured things out.

Dean's eyes shut. He still didn't like this, but sleep sounded too good. Sammy would watch his back.

He sank under once more, knowing something was wrong, but the part that mattered most was just right.

00000

If he slid down just enough on the floor, the edge of the mattress was right at his neck, and he could still lean his back against the bed frame. It was a mostly comfortable position in which to watch TV, while still being able to feel the vibration of the bed if Dean moved.

Sam tipped his head back to glance at his sleeping brother. Not that that seemed likely to happen anytime soon. Dean had slept like one comatose since Sam had hauled him back to the motel nearly three days before, only rousing occasionally to stare at Sam with blank eyes and swallow some water before fading out again. It was solely those moments of lucidity that kept Sam from looking up sleeping curses to make sure he hadn't traded one affliction for another, although he'd bookmarked the site, just in case.

So the voice when it came, patchy and weak and completely Dean, made Sam start in surprise.

"There better be a really good party at the other end of this hangover."

He grinned at the TV. "You and blondie, who's a real animal, alone in an empty warehouse, count?" he offered. He twisted back to meet Dean's eyes.

His brother shifted, pushing himself a little higher on the pillows, and groaned. "Don't remind me."

Sam climbed to his feet to perch on the edge of the other bed, facing Dean. "So, you remember what happened?" he asked more seriously.

"Unfortunately." Dean's movements were still sluggish, but seemed relatively pain-free. He started to sit up, then seemed to change his mind and settled on his side, pillows bunched under his head and arm held close to his chest. "It dead?"

"You're still human, aren't you?"

"Doesn't feel like it," came the petulant grumble. More pointedly, "Did it scratch you?"

"No." Sam smiled, recognizing the gruffness for the worry it was. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, well, I don't like you going after things alone."

"I wasn't crazy about that part, either, Dean," Sam said softly.

Dean grimaced and shut his eyes. Seconds of quiet passed before he offered a muted, "Thanks."

He was still shifting uncomfortably. Sam finally reached out and plucked out the pillow from the end of his own little-used bed, and leaned over Dean to wedge it behind him for a little more support. His brother suffered his help in silence, repeating an even quieter thanks when Sam sat back down.

Dean squinted at the bedside clock. "What time is it?"

Sam snorted a laugh. "How about what day it is?"

Dean looked chagrined. "Guess I lost the bet, huh?"

"Uh, _yeah_."

"Extenuating circumstances," Dean said immediately, and shrugged. "Doesn't count."

"You hid and I found, Dean. It took me less than twelve hours, too." Never mind the fact that fear for his brother had been a powerful motivator.

"Fine. You win."

The bitterness, the way Dean seemed to shrink under the words, surprised him. At least until his brain kicked in. Sam looked at his older brother, the hero of his childhood and often his adult years, and suddenly felt very humble. "Not really." He shrugged. "I cheated."

Dean squinted at him. "What?"

"I cheated. I didn't track you, I tracked her—it. I wouldn't've found you otherwise, Dean."

His brother wasn't stupid. He was already shaking his head. "Sam—"

Sam leaned forward. "Don't get me wrong—I would've broken every federal and state law along with most of the Ten Commandments to find you, let alone some stupid rules we made up, but that doesn't mean I won the bet."

Dean was having trouble meeting his eyes, embarrassed but touched, maybe even relieved. Sam hid a smile as his brother tried to figure out what to do with a declaration like that, and finally opted for his usual approach. "Man, I nearly get turned into a— What was that thing, anyway?"

Sam shrugged again. "Azeman?"

"Whatever. I nearly turn into a creature of the night, and you're arguing about a few rules?"

Sam choked a laugh, and shook his head. His smile faded as he watched Dean, though, taking in the bandaged arm, the pale face and fine tremors of fatigue. "Are you saying you want a rematch?" he asked quietly.

Dean's eyes bored into him. "No," he said flatly.

"Dean—"

"It was a stupid idea, okay? We're supposed to be hunting these creeps, not each other."

"I know. I'm sorry, I should never have—"

"Hey." Sam looked up at him and got an unusually gentle smile. It soon widened into a grin. "This mean we agree? I'm the better hunter?"

Sam gave him an exasperated look. "You didn't win, either, Dean, remember?" At the continued smug look, he threw up his hands. "Fine. 'Most conceited,' okay? I'll give you that."

"Best looking," Dean countered, yawning. He looked exhausted, but Sam knew this did him as much good as sleep.

He crossed his arms. "Shortest."

"Most charming."

"Most full of it."

Dean's smirk grew with every exchange. "Luckiest," he crowed, then canted his eyebrows in a _beat that_ challenge.

Sam opened his mouth, shut it again.

"Uh-huh." Dean pointed at him. "See?"

"Right," Sam drawled, oddly irritated. "Because you were so lucky to get scratched right before you went into hiding."

"I had you to figure it out in time, right?" Dean said, undeterred.

And there was something to that. Their stupid game could have ended badly in so many ways, but the curse had been reversible, Sam had found him, and Dean was lying there safe and relatively whole. The very thing they had jeopardized had saved Dean. If that wasn't lucky, or blessed, Sam didn't know what was.

He also didn't want to think about it, and straightened up wearily.

"Are you hungry?"

Dean paused for a moment. "Yeah, actually," he answered, sounding surprised at the thought.

"I picked up some instant soup," Sam said, standing. "It'll just take a minute." He fished a cup out of the bag on the table and took the cellophane off, having made enough of them in the last few days to have the directions memorized.

"We could always bet on something else," Dean continued drowsily behind him. "Scavenger hunt? Tackle football?"

"Pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey." Sam peeled back the lid and filled the cup with hot water from the sink.

"Hmm." But it was less a grumble than a sigh. Sam turned back. Dean was already asleep, his face drawn without its earlier animation. He was getting better. Not quite there yet, but getting better.

Sam set the soup aside and crept back to the beds, doing the quick check he'd wanted to before but knew Dean wouldn't tolerate: pulse, temperature, bandage. Satisfied, he eased two of the bunched pillows out from under his brother so Dean could turn back on his stomach in sleep, and replaced the slipped covers. He stood there a moment before giving the sleeper a small smile.

"Second luckiest," Sam murmured.

And then he sat back down to watch TV, and wait for Dean to join him again.

**The End**


End file.
